


Clocks

by Laramie



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:32:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4400996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laramie/pseuds/Laramie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas has heard it said that there are more ghosts around a hospital than anywhere else.</p><p>But it's not the ghosts that are the problem.</p><p>-</p><p>Thomas & Jimmy's friendship is the main relationship, with some one-sided/ambiguous Thomas/Edward. Warnings are in the beginning notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clocks

**Author's Note:**

> Although I've loved the steampunk aesthetic for a while, I'm very new to the world of steampunk in terms of stories, so while this is definitely /inspired/ by steampunk, I can't say for certain that it IS steampunk. But still. It was a lot of fun - I was literally just playing in this. Thomas & Jimmy friendship, a ship I haven't written before and plenty of characters I haven't written before too.
> 
> WARNING: Body horror, canon suicide, fatal illness (sort of) and major character death (but off-screen, as it were).

Thomas has heard it said that there are more ghosts around a hospital than anywhere else.

But it’s not the ghosts that are the problem.

 

* * *

 

**1**

 

“No no no no no!”

The voice is coming from the next room, and Thomas recognises it immediately: it’s Courtenay. For the last six days, he’s been crying out in the night.

Thomas slips into the next room, past rows of soldiers, some of whom slumber, others lie sleepless. If anyone understands nightmares, it’s a soldier, particularly a wounded one, but even some of these are starting to lose patience with being woken multiple times a night. Private Walker fixes Thomas with a baleful glare as he passes. Walker doesn’t trust him.

“No-oo,” Courtenay groans, dissolving into sobs. Thomas hurries faster towards him. When he gets to Courtenay’s bed he reaches out to shake him awake - with his right hand, always the right.

“Courtenay,” he calls. He doesn’t bother to whisper; Courtenay’s already screamed louder than Thomas would, and he never wakes for anything less than a shout.

Funny how much you can come to know about a stranger’s sleeping habits.

But then, Thomas and Courtenay aren’t quite strangers, even if they’re not quite friends, either.

“Courtenay!”

Courtenay comes awake with a little “oh!”, as though Thomas has surprised him. His eyes are damp. He reaches out, unseeing, and Thomas lets him catch hold of his (right) forearm. “Oh,” Courtenay says again, sounding at once relieved and downcast. “It happened again.”

“What happened, Edward?” Thomas asks quietly, because sometimes, in the night, Thomas can call him that. He doesn’t expect an answer. Soldiers never answer questions like that.

“She keeps coming,” Courtenay whispers.

“Who does?”

But Courtenay won’t say. He turns away from Thomas in his bed, murmuring: “Just let me sleep.”

Thomas knows that he or Sybil will be back to wake him again in a few hours, but he leaves Courtenay to it all the same. Just before he walks away, Thomas pats Courtenay on the shoulder - with his right hand, always the right.

 

* * *

 

**2**

 

When Bates arrives, Thomas sees first-hand the kind of hatred that people have for those like him. He’s glad no one has ever realised. At the same time, it proves him right for choosing never to reveal himself.

Then Bates becomes a valet and Thomas wants to destroy him because he knows no one would treat  _him_ like that, if they knew.

It gets worse when Thomas returns after getting his Blighty. He’s proved right, once again, but he has never so badly wanted to be wrong.

It seems unfair. But then, Thomas supposes it’s easier to ignore something that’s covered by trousers rather than reaching for a lighter under one’s nose every day.

 

* * *

 

**3**

 

Thomas took up smoking as a way to hide. It works, most of the time, even after his golden-haired darling starts to take smoke breaks with him. The hand had unnerved Jimmy at first, but since they’ve become friends he seems to be more at ease with it. Neither of them can deny what an advantage it was in the fight against Jimmy’s muggers.

If Jimmy is gold, Thomas is brass, but Jimmy doesn’t seem to mind.

 

* * *

 

**4**

 

“I’m worried about Lieutenant Courtenay,” Sybil tells him. They’ve been looking after him as best they can, but Edward’s clearly still terrified of life without sight. Thomas has to walk him from place to place, letting Courtenay hold his right arm for guidance (always the right).

“In what way are you worried?” Thomas asks. In truth, he’s worried too, but it wouldn’t do for Sybil to see the depths of his concern.

“He’s just so sad,” Sybil says listlessly. “The only time he cheers at all is when you or I are with him. The rest of the time he just... lies there.”

“Maybe he’s still adjusting. He might be all right in a day or two.”

“I don’t think you believe that any more than I do,” Sybil says earnestly. “You’ve seen how he’s woken by nightmares.”

“Every soldier has nightmares,” Thomas points out quietly. He knows from personal experience.

“That doesn’t mean it’s all right,” Sybil argues.

“No,” Thomas agrees. “No, it doesn’t.”

 

* * *

 

**5**

 

The second time Thomas’s body changes, he does it himself, just as he prides himself on doing everything that matters by his own hand.

It starts with a lighter - or a bullet - or a doctor who trains Thomas as a medic. Thomas spends two years putting people’s insides back inside them, sewing up gashes in the skin (if he has the time), and carrying an endless procession of bodies to doctors with magnifying goggles, better training, and steadier hands than his own. Sometimes, Thomas forgets which of the bodies he carries are dead, and which are alive. Sometimes one will become the other between the battlefield and the field hospital.

Thomas tries not to look at the ghosts.

It’s a ghost that gives him the idea, in the end. A corporal comes and sits next to him in the trench, sparks up a cigarette. At first, Thomas doesn’t realise he’s dead.

“You should get yourself a Blighty one,” the corporal says. “Or else you’ll end up like me.”

It’s only then that Thomas glances up and realises that he can see a rat through the corporal’s body. Thomas shrugs.

The soldier shrugs back, but he’s already fading.

It’s the randomness Thomas can’t take. If he could know when his time will run out, he might be able to cope with it. But instead he watches men die or lose limbs or more blood than he ever thought could exist inside a person, and he knows that any one of them could be himself. Everyone here has dead eyes, even before they’re dead.

The next night, Thomas has tea with Matthew, and then he goes outside and flicks on his lighter. The wheel spins against the flint, and instead of holding it to the end of a cigarette he holds it up, up, over the edge of the trench. He’s trembling as he waits.

The bullet shatters his hand and for a second he thinks the lighter’s caught it on fire because it _burns_. He holds the ruined hand to his chest, sobbing in pain and gratitude. The doctors say things like “irreparable” and “amputate” but Thomas doesn’t care as long as he’s home.

Sitting blankly in a hospital bed, Thomas thinks about the first time his body changed, and has an idea.

It’s slow going with one hand and a wrist, but Thomas scavenges whatever he can find, buys whatever he cannot, and rents a workshop. His only painkiller is alcohol, but he can’t have too much of that because this is not the sort of thing that should be done while drunk. He passes out from the pain more than once.

Welding the metal to his skin hurts the most, but every nerve screams when he touches it. Sometimes Thomas screams too.

It takes him three weeks, between shifts at the village hospital. By the end of it, he has no savings left, he hasn’t slept more than a dozen hours and he’s exhausted from the fear of gangrene, but his left wrist transforms smoothly into a mechanical brass hand.

It’s the best he can hope for.

 

* * *

 

**6**

 

“Are you all right?” Jimmy looks concerned.

Thomas tries to breathe deeply. “’M perfectly fine,” he slurs. He doesn’t dare let go of the banister rail.

“Your lips are blue,” Jimmy observes, with his eyebrows pulled down.

“’M fine. I just came up for... for...” Damn it all, he can’t remember.

“Going senile in your old age?” Jimmy teases, but he still looks worried.

Thomas can’t muster a response, but he manages to let go of the banister without toppling over.

“Er - shall I help you to your room?” Jimmy offers tentatively.

Thomas wants to refuse but he still feels shaky. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Jimmy pulls Thomas’s arm over his shoulders and lets Thomas lean on him until they’ve stumbled into Thomas’s bedroom. Here, Jimmy hesitates, but keeps going until Thomas is sat on his bed.

“I’ll tell Carson to call Doctor Clarkson,” Jimmy says.

“No!” Thomas practically shouts, grabbing for Jimmy in panic. “No, there’s no need for that.”

“But you’re ill.”

“I just need a minute. I’ll be all right in a moment, honestly. Don’t tell anyone, Jimmy, please.” He’s gripping Jimmy’s forearm just as Edward used to grip his, staring up at Jimmy’s anxious face. “Promise me.”

“All right,” Jimmy says slowly. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

**7**

 

“Is that Thomas?”

Thomas looks up in surprise from the end of Courtenay’s bed. “It is, Lieutenant. I was just checking everyone’s comfortable before lights-out. How did you know it was me?”

“I recognise your footsteps. I’ve heard them enough.”

“You see - you’re getting the hang of it already. You’ll work out how to deal with it in no time.”

“I don’t want to _deal_ with it,” Courtenay says bitterly. “I want my sight back.”

Thomas looks in his clouded eyes and wishes for that too.

Courtenay sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you; I know you’re trying to help. Can you spare me a moment?”

Thomas can’t. He’s supposed to re-roll the bandages before he scratches out some sleep for himself. “Of course,” he says, and sits on the adjacent bed. Courtenay doesn’t say anything. “How are the nightmares?”

Edward’s face crumples. “Terrible.”

“Maybe it’ll get better,” Thomas suggests.

“It won’t. She wants me.”

“Who wants you?”

Suddenly Courtenay gasps and pushes himself further up the bed. “Is that her?” he whispers frantically.

Thomas turns to look. “It’s just a ghost of an old lady,” he reassures Courtenay.

Courtenay relaxes minutely. “What’s she doing?”

“Just walking down the aisle,” Thomas relays. “Oh, and apparently through some of the beds as well.”

Courtenay makes a breathy noise that might be a laugh. “Thomas...” he says, and puts his hand clumsily on Thomas’s knee.

Covering it with his own (right) hand, Thomas feels his heart leap into his throat. “You can tell me,” he murmurs. In front of him, the old lady ghost fades out.

“She wants my eyes,” Courtenay says urgently. His fingers are digging into Thomas’s thigh.

“Who does?”

“The thing in my dreams.” Courtenay releases Thomas’s knee to gesture vaguely at his own head. “She wants my eyes and if I don’t give them to her, she’ll take them.”

“It’s just a dream,” Thomas says, but he’s not certain.

“It’s not just a dream,” Edward insists. “She wants to put glass and wires in my head - I don’t want her fake eyes!”

“I thought you wanted to see again,” Thomas says, but it’s nothing like a joke.

“I don’t want _mech_ in my brain,” Courtenay says firmly. “It’s like you said. I can’t let her make me into a victim.”

“Would it be so bad?” Thomas asks carefully. “Lots of people have mech. Especially with the war and everything.”

“Not _me_ ,” Courtenay spits forcefully. “I’m not a freak like those _clocks_.”

Thomas flinches at the venom in his tone.

“I won’t let her,” Courtenay concludes. “I won’t let her make me into a clock.” Tears are running down his face.

It’s as though he has gutted out Thomas’s heart. Slowly, he puts his brass left hand behind his back and gets to his feet. “I’d best get on,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t let himself cry until he’s alone in his bed.

 

* * *

 

**8**

 

He shows O’Brien his hand. She saw the stump, too, and said: “It seems a heavy price to pay.”

“I’ve got plans,” Thomas said.

Three weeks later and less all his savings, he’s back. They’re out in the yard, sharing a smoke. He takes his hand out of his pocket, pulls off his glove, and holds the hand out without comment.

O’Brien takes a long breath. “What have you done to yourself?”

Thomas is proud of it. He knows no one else will approve, but he’s managed to put together a (mostly) functioning hand from little more than scraps of brass and a knowledge of the hand gleaned mostly from seeing far too many of them blown off. Sure, the fingers sometimes twitch and if he doesn’t oil the joints daily they get stiff, but it’s still an achievement. Admittedly, the occasional bleeding along the seam _is_ a drawback. He flexes his piston-jointed fingers. Each nerve and blood vessel and sinew that he had to connect is still burned into his brain.

“Put it away,” O’Brien snaps.

Thomas looks at his leather palm for a few more seconds before pulling his glove back over his hand. Disappointment creeps over him, even though he knew this would happen. He’s proud of his hand, but he knows he'll be the only one who is.

It makes him more glad than ever for the cigarette smoke he exhales above his head.

 

* * *

 

**9**

 

Jimmy’s watching him. A year ago, Thomas would have thrilled at that fact, but Jimmy will never be in love with him. Thomas has made peace with that. His friendship is still the most fulfilling relationship Thomas has ever had.

In any case, it’s obvious why Jimmy’s watching. Thomas is breathless all the time now. His wages disappear on cigarettes and Jimmy tells him not to smoke so much because he doesn’t know the cigarettes won’t make any difference. The secret of Thomas’s illness is still safe but he wonders how long Jimmy will keep his promise not to tell anyone. The fear on Jimmy's face is clear.

Thomas was afraid at first, but now he’s made peace with this, too.

He has decided to go away, to spend some time seeing the world, if he can - or the country, if he can’t.

Only when Jimmy finds him collapsed in his own doorway one night does Thomas tell him the whole story.

 

* * *

 

**10**

 

Courtenay has to leave, because Clarkson thinks he’s well even though he’s blind and depressed and still screams every night. But this is the army, so Major Clarkson must be obeyed. He and Sybil try to talk him out of it, then try to think of a solution themselves, but there’s really nothing they can do.

It’s Thomas who finds him, amid more blood than he ever thought could exist inside a person. There’s no help to offer. Edward has been dead for hours. As Thomas stands looking numbly at his body, he feels a ghostly hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Edward says from behind him. “I couldn’t let her make me into a clock.”

Thomas closes his eyes until the presence disappears.

It’s not until Thomas finds a few minutes alone to cry that he realises: Edward was quiet last night.

 

* * *

 

**11**

 

The first time Thomas’s body changes, he’s eleven. He picks up a chest infection that turns into pneumonia. This is the first time in his young life that Thomas has trouble breathing. He coughs up yellow mucus past the pain in his chest and shivers in his hospital bed. His parents bring a magazine that he can’t focus on. His little sister gives him a smooth pebble and stares at him with terrified eyes.

There are a lot of ghosts here. One of them is an old man who walks up and down the corridor. A girl in ragged clothes lies curled under the bed opposite, sobbing. The coughing mostly keeps Thomas’s mind off them.

One morning, Thomas is dozing. He opens his eyes to see a figure across the room, indistinct because of the sunlight streaming through the window behind them. It’s not until Thomas notices that he’s not coughing that he realises this is a dream.

“It’s not a dream,” the figure says, drawing closer. The other beds are empty so the figure sits on the next bed to Thomas's and Thomas gets a better look at her. She’s dressed in a sickly green colour, skirt and blouse both, and a black top hat. Everything about her fills Thomas with dread, but worst of all are the spidery designs on her hands. Power seems to radiate out of them, and Thomas knows that if he touches them, he will not survive it.

Fearfully, Thomas meets her terrible gaze, and she smiles like Thomas has already fallen into a trap.

“You’re dying, child,” she says, leaning her face close to Thomas’s until he can see every pore in her skin. He presses himself back but he’s weaker now, he can feel it. “It’s your lungs.” She holds out one hand and hovers it palm-down over his chest. Thomas has to gasp for breath, not just from fear but because she’s taking his breath, she truly is - “They won’t last. Can you feel it? Can you feel how you’ll die?”

Thomas starts crying. His heart’s racing, desperate to get the blood around his weakening body - and he _can_ feel it, he can feel that he’s dying.

The thing removes her hand and air floods back into Thomas’s lungs, streaming around his body. His head clears enough for him to look at the thing - Thomas’s young mind thinks of her as a demon - and rasp: “Why?”

“I can take your life,” she says. “But I can also give it back. If you agree.”

“Agree what?” Thomas asks; he’s a cautious boy by nature.

“I want your dream,” she says. “And the best memory you have of your parents.”

“You can’t take dreams.”

She smiles again, looking dangerous. “Oh, yes. The memory of what you want most.” She twitches her fingers in her lap and Thomas’s breath catches in his chest. “And the best memory you have.”

Thomas thinks about his seventh birthday. Daddy came home early and all four of them took a bus into the city to look at the Christmas lights. Mummy called him ‘my love’ and Ellie bounced on his lap and giggled. The memory keeps him going sometimes. It hasn’t been like that for a long time.

“But if I give it to you, you’ll make me live?”

“Brand new lungs...” she says, flexing her fingers over his chest. “Good for twenty-five years.”

Thomas adds it up in his head. “That’s not very old.”

“It’s older than you are now,” she points out. “And you’ll die without it.”

Thomas thinks about it - as he does, the weariness creeps over him again. His heart picks up speed in an effort to keep enough oxygen surging through his body.

“All right,” Thomas gasps, fighting for breath. “I agree, don’t make me die, please!”

The demon doesn’t smile. She leaps forward and crouches over his chest. With one finger she draws a line down his sternum.

Thomas screams. Blood drips onto the white bedclothes.

The demon pulls his ribs apart. The last thing Thomas sees is a pair of bellows; then she puts one hand on his forehead and he blacks out.

 

* * *

 

**12**

 

Thomas pokes his head around Jimmy’s bedroom door. “I’m off,” he says, not managing to smile.

“All right,” Jimmy answers. “Wait for me in the yard.”

“Very well.”

Before he’s gone three steps, Jimmy’s by the door. “You promise you’ll wait?” he says urgently.

“Of course. I promise.”

He makes his way downstairs, making farewells in every direction as he goes. By the time he reaches the yard, he’s already weary. Putting his suitcase on the ground, Thomas lights up a cigarette while he waits. His bellows lungs draw the smoke in and out. They’ve never been quite right. Steam rises up through his lips at odd intervals, giving him away. It’s why he took up smoking; no one sees a little steam amid a cloud of smoke, and it doesn’t seem to make any difference to his health.

When Jimmy comes out, he frowns at the cigarette and opens his mouth, then closes it again. Jimmy knows now. Jimmy knows he’s a clock through-and-through, not just his hand. He’s a clock that’s winding down.

“Have you always wanted to travel?” Jimmy asks as he leans against the wall beside Thomas. “You’ve never said.”

“I did when I was younger,” Thomas replies softly. “I’d forgotten...”

They stand in silence for a few seconds, until Thomas gathers himself and asks: “What’s that for?” He gestures at the suitcase Jimmy clutches in one hand.

“I’m coming with you.”

Thomas freezes and stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

Jimmy moves to face him. “I’m not letting you go off on your own like a dog crawling away to die,” he says fiercely. “I told them I’m coming with you.”

For a few seconds, Thomas can’t breathe. “You’ll never work again,” he manages at last.

“Carson’s written me a reference - a good one, too. Or at least, a fair one.” He gives Thomas a lopsided smile.

“You told Carson?”

“Only that you’ve somewhere to go and I need to help you.”

Thomas is struck all over again by how handsome Jimmy is. “He’ll think we’re eloping,” he says, with a weak laugh.

“I don’t care,” Jimmy shrugs. “I think he knows something’s up, anyway. He told me to give you his ‘absolute warmest regards’.”

Thomas is stunned. Carson only gripped Thomas’s hand and said goodbye when Thomas saw him a moment ago. “He did?”

“Yes. Mrs Hughes hugged me. I think she cried a bit. And...”

“And what?”

“She said she’s proud of me.” His tone is defiant, and he lifts his chin a little as he says it. It’s obvious how much her approval means to him.

Thomas’s chest feels tight.

“So they’re not going to be a problem,” Jimmy concludes.

“You’ve been planning this,” Thomas accuses weakly.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you trying to talk me out of it. You’ve got enough to think about.”

Thomas is lost for words. For a moment he wonders if he’s dreaming. “Why?” he whispers.

Jimmy fidgets and licks his lips, though he meets Thomas’s gaze steadily. “Look,” he begins, then stops. He grimaces. “I’m not good at this. The thing is... I may not love you the way you’d like me to, but I _do_ love you. And if you’ve only got a few months, or weeks, or whatever, I want to be there with you. And I won’t... won’t let you die alone, all right? I’ll be with you, right to the end, no matter what.”

Thomas’s heart is swelling like it wants to burst his ribs open all over again. Any words have left him.

“And - and maybe we can find you some help,” Jimmy adds.

But Thomas shakes his head. “The price would be too high,” he says. “I’m not willing to pay it again. I’d rather make the most of what’s left. I’ve always known this is coming. You need to understand that, Jimmy, if you’re coming - I _am_ going to die.”

Tears are filling Jimmy’s eyes, but he nods bravely. “I understand that.” He sniffs, and manages a smile. “Shall we go, then?” he suggests. “There’s a lot of world to see.”

Thomas smiles for the first time in weeks, and nods. Together, they make their way to the car that will take them to the train station. As they settle in the back, Thomas says: “I’m glad I made a friend like you.”

Jimmy pats Thomas’s mechanical left hand. “Me too.”

With Jimmy by his side, Thomas knows he can face everything in his future.


End file.
